In Terms of Love
by NCCJFAN
Summary: Haiti. Smuggling. Black market sales of babies and children. Woody and Jordan face seemingly insurrmountable obstacles to solve this case and find each other again.
1. Now and Then You Cross My Mind

**It's amazing where the mind wanders to while in Mass...the service, not the state.**

**I was sitting in Mass this morning when this idea came to me. Why I was thinking about Woody and Jordan in the middle of a lovely service, I had no idea. But as the peace and serenity of my church engulfed me and I couldn't help but hope that everyone I knew could at some time experience what I was feeling at the moment. And from there, I guess my mind wandered to my two favorite characters and made the same wish for them and the series.**

**And I came up with this. It could take place anytime during the series. I haven't spoke French in awhile, so Babelfish was used. If there are any errors, please be kind. The Latin – straight from the Catholic Encyclopedia. I can speak it, just didn't want to depend on my memory for the spelling. **

**As usual, I own nothing. Wish I did, but I don't. Wonder if Tim would sell it to me cheap now?**

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* * *

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_**In Terms of Love**_

**Chapter One**

**Now and Then You Cross My Mind**

It was hot. More than hot. It was hot and sticky and more humid than Woody had ever thought it possible to be. He shifted in his seat and tried to discreetly peel his shirt away from the skin on his back, stuck there with the cloying dampness that could only be found in the areas located near the equator.

The plane trip had been uneventful. Woody had killed time by flipping through the three thick files he had brought with him. Re-reading each detail he had already read more than a thousand times. Re-focusing. Centering himself. Telling himself not to get his hopes up too high because after all, they had crashed and burned many times before in the past two years. Promising himself that he would look at this new evidence with fresh eyes and a wary heart.

"Monsieur Hoyt?"

A soft, male voice drew Woody out of his thoughts and he rubbed his hand over his face as if to wipe off his thoughts of the past and bring him back to the present. "Oui?"

"Mon nom est père Jean Louis. Je suis celui qui vous a appelé l'autre jour. J'ai eu connaissance de votre situation difficile sur l'Internet. Je suis très désolé pour la faute à temps et la douleur qu'elle vous a causé."

Woody looked at the short man with confusion visible in his blue eyes.

The priest chuckled. "I am sorry. I assumed by your answer that you were fluent in French. My name is Father Jean Louis. I am the one who called you the other day. I read about your plight on the internet. I am very sorry for the lapse in time and the pain it has caused you." The priest held out his hand to the detective.

"Thank you, Father." Woody shook the priest's hand shifted his weight restlessly. Patience had never been one of his graces and the last couple of years had done nothing to cultivate it. "I would like, as soon as possible, to see…"

The priest held up his hand to stop Woody. "Veuillez être tranquille," he began and paused. "I mean, please. Now is not the time for you to talk. Now is the time for you to listen."

"But…"

The priest began to walk out of the receiving area of the church where Woody had been sitting and on to a covered walkway, motioning for Woody to follow. For a long minute, there was nothing heard but the soft swish of the priest's floor length robes. It wasn't until they had put considerable space between themselves and the church that Father Jean Louis spoke again.

"You must listen to me, Monsieur Hoyt. It is very important that you hear before you see…" The priest paused and waited for Woody to nod in agreement before he continued.

"Here at Fond-Parisien, we are somewhat isolated, even by Haiti standards. Our population is less than 10,000 and we serve the poorest of the poor here…"

Again Woody nodded, but this time it was quick and his neck nearly snapped with tension. Wading through oceans of red ink and miles of bureaucratic red tape had never been his idea of a good time. But Woody had gritted his teeth, swam the ocean and cut the tape, because that was what it took to get him into Haiti in a record three days. Now he was here tracking down yet one more lead. A lead that was probably one more dead end, but he had vowed to let no stone go unturned until he held the evidence in his hands and it was confirmed by Garret.

"So we aren't able to always hear and see the news as it happens. I'm afraid we are one demographic that CNN has overlooked." The priest continued and chuckled again at his own wry joke.

"Look, Father, I fully sympathize with your isolation and your poverty. When I get home, I'll make a recommendation to my parish that we send you a large donation. But you said you thought you had something that would help me solve this case."

"I think I do."

Woody swallowed hard. "Then can I see it?" His stomach churned with nerves. A part of him wanted to see it, and bring closure. Another part of him hoped Jean Louis was desperately wrong and Woody could go on clinging to hope.

"In a moment, Monsieur Hoyt. In a moment. You must hear before you see." The priest stopped walking and eyed Woody carefully. When one of the nuns had read about the Boston detective's plight on the parish's recently acquired internet and pointed it out to Jean Louis, the priest had to think long and hard about calling Woody. To bring such attention to a very quiet and settled parish might not be a good thing. It might bring not only the unwanted watchful eyes of any number of higher-ups in the church and the legal system, but it could also disrupt some very settled and productive lives.

"Are you willing to listen before you learn?" Jean Louis asked.

"Yes, Father." _But can't you hurry…._

Stifling a smile at the detective's poorly hid impatience the priest resumed walking. "You have heard of the plane crash a couple of years ago off the shores of Etang Saumatre?"

Woody nodded. "Small craft. We call them 'puddle jumpers'. It held about fifteen people. Caught fire in mid-air. Crashed off the shore. There were no survivors."

"You have seen the manifest." It wasn't a question.

"I have." A deep breath kept Woody's voice from breaking.

"Dr. Cavanaugh's name was on it."

"Yes." Woody had no idea that Jordan had even taken a flight into this part of Haiti until about six months ago when he had finally been issued a warrant to search international flight manifests. A search had turned up Jordan's name on this particular document.

"And her remains were never found?"

"No." Woody shook his head. "There weren't very many remains recovered and we found nothing of hers but a piece or two of her luggage and her bag with her ID and credit cards." Of the pitiful pieces of human flesh and bone that had been recovered, none of it tested positive for Jordan's DNA. Woody and Garret both had poked and prodded the Haitian government for more details about the test results. They had even gotten federal and state officials involved, but to no avail. The Haitian medical examiner was adamant that the US government and the Boston officials had received everything from the plane wreck.

So Woody had nearly closed the case just to give himself and Garret some peace of mind. But he kept coming back to the evidence. Or rather the lack thereof. No body, no remains, no DNA. Garret had to remind him that just as in the Twin Towers and 9/11, sometimes you find nothing. And you just have to go on the evidence you have.

But then Father Jean Louis had e-mailed him, saying that he may have evidence which would help Woody close the case once and for all – and he had something that would shed light on what had happened to Jordan. This was all it took for Woody to put the gears in motion and three days later, the detective was in Haiti, looking into yet another lead.

A lead, that once he carefully examined the details, wasn't so far off-base. At least in his mind. The message from Jean Louis had been cryptic: _Come to Fond Parisien in Haiti. I have evidence to close the case on Dr. Cavanaugh_. After that the good Father had been stingy with the details, refusing to discuss anything else over the phone – even over a land line communication.

But the more Woody thought about it, the more it _could_ make sense. The plane crash was off the shores of Etang Saumatre, which bordered Fond Parisien. Perhaps, over time and currents, some of Jordan's remains had washed up on shore and were not identified. Being good Catholics, the Father and the sisters probably prayed over and then interred the bones and clinging flesh. After reading on the internet about Jordan's story involving the plane crash near his small town, the priest had probably put two and two together and decided it was time to call the Boston authorities.

"Good." The Father's statement jerked Woody back to the present.

"Good? How could that possibly be good, Father? It's bad enough to lose someone like Jordan, but then to never be able to bring her home to rest and not to give those of us who loved her closure…how could that be good?" Woody snapped back at the priest.

And then immediately apologized. "I'm sorry." He rubbed the moisture off the back of his neck with his hand. "It's just that every time we think we have this case closed, there's something else..."

"You miss her, don't you?" the priest bluntly interrupted.

Woody nodded, now not sure if it was sweat or tears that was making his eyes burn. "We all do…"

The priest stopped walking again, this time in front of the small chapel to the side of the church. "But _you_ especially miss Jordan, don't you?"

Woody nodded again, this time feeling a miserable wave of grief and regret wash over him. It was a familiar emotion that he had yet to come to terms with. But he needed to see this through, get it over, and bring whatever he could of her back to Boston to bury. He looked at Father Jean Louis expectantly as the priest opened the door the chapel, assuming that he was going to lead the way to some sort of mausoleum and the place where they had interred her. Instead, the priest led him into the familiar vestibule and motioned for Woody to look down a short aisle. And at the end of the aisle, a woman knelt in prayer.

"Then answer me this question, my son. Is this the woman you've been looking for?"


	2. In Terms of Love

**Chapter Two**

**A Little Too Much Time**

_O Vergin benedetta, sempre tu  
Ora per noi a Dio, che ci perdoni,  
E diaci grazia a viver si quaggiu  
Che'l paradiso al nostro fin ci doni;_

The sound of a familiar soft, female voice reciting the Hail Mary nearly made Woody jump out of his skin.

"Jordan…." For a split second his eyes and his brain couldn't agree who was the woman kneeling in prayer. And when they did reach consensus, his feet were quick to follow.

Only Woody found he couldn't go anywhere. Father Jean Louis might be shorter than the detective, but every ounce was muscle and the priest was wrestling Woody back out of the vestibule to the covered walkway. "Non, aucun mon fils….No. Wait."

"Wait? Why? I've been looking for her for two years and now you tell me to _wait_? That's Jordan in there…."

"Oui. I know. Or at least I assumed." The priest straightened his robe and continued to give Woody a stern look. "I am asking you to wait for just a while longer. Until you are through listening."

"But…Father…Jordan…"

"Jordan is in the chapel praying as she does each day this time. And when she is through, she will eat dinner with the sisters."

Woody's head spun. _Eat dinner with the sisters?_ "Does that mean she's, ah…taken the vows?"

Father Louis chuckled. "Non. I do not know this Jordan very well, but a nun? No. Not her." He paused and looked at Woody. This time not quite so stern. "There is much we need to share." He glanced back at the chapel, where Jordan was now lighting candles. "Come. Let's walk some more."

The priest led the way back down the covered walkway to an area near the edge of Etang Saumatre, away from the church and away from anyone who may have listening ears. "The plane crash. You assumed she was on the plane?"

Woody nodded, still glancing back over his shoulder at the small chapel that held his hopes.

"She wasn't."

Woody's head snapped back around. The priest had his full attention now. "What?"

"She wasn't on it. The plane…it moved too slow for her, I imagine. She probably had checked in at the Port Au Prince airport and found her flight here was delayed. So she rented a car and came here, but didn't bother to get her luggage off the plane, assuming she'd pick it up later. Therefore, her bags were in the plane crash. She was not. Jordan arrived in Fond Parisien with her pocketbook and some cash. That is it. At least, that's what we can tell."

His brain was zinging with the reality that Jordan was alive, but still the priest's words weren't making complete sense. Speculation laced those sentences and Woody was trying hard to follow the priest's train of thoughts. He sat down heavily on a bench beside the walkway and motioned for the priest to join him. "I'm not following you. Did Jordan tell you why she was here? Has she been with you the whole two years she's been missing? Why didn't she get in touch with us?"

The priest nodded. "Jordan has been with us, but we didn't know who she was. She doesn't know who she is."

Woody's face tightened visibly. "What are you saying?"

"There was a plane crash that day, my son. There was also a car crash. Your Jordan was in the car crash. She was badly injured – her head struck the windshield. She was in a unconscious for a while. When she finally opened her eyes and came back to us, she didn't know who she was. We had no identification for her and at the time, did not connect the car wreck to the plane crash."

"Until you saw her picture on the internet."

Father Louis nodded. "And then it began to make sense. Especially when you told me that all that was found of her in the plane wreckage was her luggage. It didn't take long for me to get the pieces put together. The officials may not speak candidly with a detective from the United States, but they generally will honor an old priest's requests." He chuckled when he thought about how quickly the rental agency gave up the information on Jordan's car to him a few days ago to him.

"Does _she_ know?"

"Marie? Non…Jordan. We have called her Marie because we did not know her real name. No. I wanted to make sure our Marie was your Jordan before we told her."

Woody leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hand. "So she still has no memories of anything."

The priest shook his head. "Non. After the crash? She remembers well. Before? Nothing."

* * *

They had fought, of course.

Before Jordan had disappeared, the usual argument had taken place – the authorities were moving too slowly, the evidence was there, why didn't they just go _get_ the bad guys?

Woody couldn't help but agree with her. Smuggling of any kind was always nefarious. The smuggling of black-market babies was even more so. Throw in a few incidents where the human smuggling included underage girls for even worse than nefarious purposes and everyone was ready to rush to help Lady Justice.

The problem?

International warrants. While part of the smuggling ring had been pinned to Boston, the events rippled out like waves in a puddle after a rock was thrown in. They just kept circling and edging out…further and further. First Florida. Then St. Thomas. Puerto Rico. The Dominican Republic.

Jordan had pushed for Florida, at least. But the authorities preferred to keep things low profiled until more evidence was in, then nab the suspects in one fell swoop. That sounded sensible. It sounded like the right thing to do. She had backed off for time being and Woody had breathed a sigh of relief.

Until Mr. and Mrs. Cook showed up at the Nineteenth Precinct to file a missing person's report on their baby, six month-old Sara Breanna. A missing baby was bad enough. Throw in the fact that Sara was suffering from a heart condition that required constant observation and medication, and it was horrendous. Woody felt his heart sink. The chances of rescue verses recovery were now very low.

Jordan felt sure the human smuggling ring had struck again – abducting seemingly healthy, white babies to sell on the black market to couples who were agonizingly childless. She and Nigel had worked double-time behind everyone's back to connect the dots.

And before Woody knew what had happened, Jordan had hopped a flight to Haiti without telling him. The fighting between them about this case had been bad – Jordan urging for swift justice and Woody agreeing, but emphasizing that since this was an international event, there was only so much he and the Boston PD could do.

Leave it to Jordan to take matters in her own hands. She had simply disappeared one morning. No note. No e-mail. No message. It was as if she had dropped off the planet. Woody had felt his world crash and for a while he, Garret, and Nigel worked nonstop to find her. Only to have one after another lead dead end into nothingness.

Until Woody had received Father Jean Louis's e-mail.

"I want to see her," Woody said suddenly, breaking the silence between him and the priest.

Father Louis nodded. "They should be through with the evening meal by now." The old priest's robes swished softly as he stood and walked with Woody in silence back to the main church and convent. "Monsieur Hoyt," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet of both men's thoughts. "A word before we go in."

"Yes, Father?"

"Marie…Jordan…has been happy with us for the two years she has been here. She teaches at our school. She loves our children and they, her. We love her. What are your plans? Ce qui sont vous planification à faire avec la Jordanie?"

Woody's high school French was a bit rusty, but he knew where the old priest was heading. "I plan on taking her home."

"Back to Boston?"

"Oui."

Father Louis stopped in front of the church doors. "But what if she doesn't want to go?"

Woody looked down at the gravel path in front of him before raising his head and looking Father Louis in the eyes. "I know Jordan and the one thing that I don't think would change in her, amnesia or no amnesia, is her desire to know the truth. And for her, the truth is in Boston. Not Haiti."

The priest regarded Woody carefully. "And if she is not happy there and her memory never returns? Ce qui sont vos plans alors? What are your plans then?"

Woody shook his head. His mind couldn't go there to fathom the fact that Jordan wouldn't want to stay in Boston, much less that her memory wouldn't return. "I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"Svp. Vous la retournerez nous? You will bring her back?"

A long pause, and then finally Woody assented with a nod. "But only if she asks."

"Bon. And I will release her to you only if she wishes to go."


	3. Changed My Way of Thinking

**Chapter Three**

**Changed My Way of Thinking**

The chapel was the closest Woody got to her that night. By the time he and Father Jean Louis had finished talking and walked back to the church, the sisters and Jordan had finished dinner and she had already headed off to bed. "The days begin early for us," Father Louis told Woody. "She goes to bed soon after the evening meal. Tomorrow you will see her. First thing. I promise."

So instead of spending time with the woman now known as Marie, Woody found himself in the more than capable, if stern hands, of Sister Mary Katherine. He quickly surmised that the good Sister could give Rene' Walcott a few lessons in taking no nonsense.

He was led down a back hall to a small, but clean room, furnished with only the bare necessities. "The bathroom is down the hall," Sister Mary Katherine told him. "And we rise at 5:30 to get ready for the children. I trust you find everything satisfactory…" She left the sentence hanging.

Woody nodded. "Thank you."

"And I trust you will stay in your room until that time?" It wasn't really a question. It was a statement followed by a stern look. The nun obviously thought at sometime during the night Woody would go looking for Marie – Jordan – perhaps for less than charitable purposes and snatch her away in the darkness.

"You have my word, Sister."

The nun nodded and exited Woody's room, leaving him to sigh in relief and dig out his cell phone. Without glancing at his watch to mentally calculate the difference in time, Woody punched three on speed dial. Garret's groggy voice answered after the fourth ring.

"I've found her…and she's alive."

Garret's gasp was audible.

* * *

By six the next morning, Woody heard the convent begin to come to life, the voices of children and the Sisters intermingling as breakfast was being prepared.

He had yet to hear Jordan's voice among them. A fissure of fear ran down his back, but he waited until the more decent hour of six-thirty to leave his small room, despite the fact he had been up since four. He eased down the hall, following the sounds and smells and pulled up short as the hall emptied out into a large dining room.

And dead ended into a wall of complete silence. Everyone stopped talking as soon as he entered the doorway. It was obvious by the looks on the children's and the nuns' faces that the only Catholic church in Fond Parisien received few visitors.

Probably even fewer American ones.

Woody swallowed nervously and smiled at the children, all the while anxiously looking for Father Jean Louis. Instead, he was discovered by Sister Mary Katherine. "He's looking for you," she said bluntly, taking for granted that Woody would know who 'he' was. "Follow me."

The nun led Woody out of the dining room, through the adjoining room and hallway, and then back into the main church and to the priest's office. Before she tapped on Father Louis' door, she hesitated and turned to the detective. "You want our Marie."

Woody smiled at the nun, who was either very displeased or fearful at that notion. He wasn't sure which, maybe a little of both, as her body language spoke far more than her blunt words.

"Jordan. She's Jordan. And yes, I want her to go home with me, back to Boston, where she belongs. Where people love her and have missed her tremendously."

"We love her, too," the nun whispered, still hesitating to knock. "Nous ne voulons pas qu'elle parte. C'est tout qu'elle sait. She knows nothing else but this place and no one else but us. Be careful with her, Hoyt Révélateur."

"I will." Woody reached out and rapped on the door himself. To listen to anymore of the elderly nun's dialogue would end up giving him a good case of the guilts. He didn't need that. Jordan didn't need that. She needed to be returned to Boston, among everything she once held familiar and back to people who knew and loved her.

At least that's what he kept telling that heavy feeling in his chest.

"Entré, svp."

Slowly he pushed the door open and was first confronted with the good Father. "Bonjour, mon fils. You are rested? Bon."

Woody nodded, his full attention on the woman sitting in one of the chairs in front of Jean Louis' desk. A woman whose frame and face were more familiar to him than his own.

"I've been telling Marie there was an American visiting here that wanted to meet her," Father Louis said, his bright eyes looking back and forth between Woody and Jordan. There was enough of a cautionary note in the Father's voice that Woody knew he had to proceed carefully.

"Yes." He held out his hand for Jordan to shake, feeling his breath catch and hold as she stood and took it. "My name is Woody. Woody Hoyt."

"I'm Marie Jones…nice to meet you, Mr. Hoyt."

The Father's eyes were still playing a tennis match between the two, darting back and forth. "Mr. Hoyt is a detective with the Boston police department," he offered hopefully.

Jordan nodded. "How interesting. What brings you to Haiti then, Detective Hoyt? Are you following a case down here?" Her voice was earnest as she looked up at Woody, her eyes steady.

And not a glimmer of recognition ran through them.

* * *

"She doesn't know me," Woody told Garret, phoning him after breakfast. "Not a hint of recognition, nothing. Her memory has been swiped clean." Irritation and disappointment laced his voice. He had hoped, against all good reason, that once Jordan saw him, that her memory would be jarred a little. At least shaken enough for her to tell him that he at least looked familiar.

Instead -- nothing. After a few minutes of small talk and Woody dancing around exactly _why_ he as in Haiti, Jordan – Marie – had excused herself and went to help with breakfast. Woody had turned to the priest in near frustration.

And Father Jean Louis had simply shrugged. "It was a brief meeting, mon fils. Give it a few days. She may yet know you. Marie – your Jordan – is not dull-witted. Your excuse of continuing to investigate the two-year old airplane crash off the coast of Etang Saumatre will become flimsy to her after a few days. At that point, you may feel you can tell her more."

Garret echoed the Father's advice. "Give it a few days, Woody. And if you think it would help if I flew out there, I will. But we don't want to overwhelm her. It will be better for her and us if her memory comes back gradually."

"_If_ it comes back at all."

Woody could hear the smile in Garret's voice. "You've found her and she's alive. That's what we've been hoping for. You're in a place where prayers are answered. Wouldn't hurt to offer a few up for yourself."

* * *

After his phone call with Garret, Woody had wandered the compound. It was a well-established church, with a nave and chapel, living quarters for the Father and the Sisters, and evidently a small orphanage. Woody had noticed the dormitory like buildings on the outskirts of the property the previous night and had figured as much.

What he hadn't figured on was the number of parentless children. Fond Parisien seemed to have more than it's percentage share of orphans. As he stood in the corner of the property and watched the children busily come and go to classes and play, he was unaware that Father Louis had come up beside him, watching Woody watch the children.

"AIDS," the priest said suddenly, jarring Woody out of his thoughts.

"Beg your pardon?" The word at first made no sense.

"AIDS," Father Louis repeated. "It has devastated third-world families. In many places, it's more than an epidemic, it's an accepted way of life. It is nothing to have almost entire families wiped out by the disease."

"And you take care of the ones left behind?"

The priest nodded. "Years ago our church may have had a dozen or so children. Now? We are capacité finie – more than full. Because we had the space, many of the other orphanages and homes sent their children to us."

"Do these children carry the disease?" Glancing at the children at play, it was difficult to believe any of them were sick. Typical playground games were going on. Tag. Red Rover. Swings. Jump rope. Kick ball. All under the watchful eye of the Sisters. And Jordan.

The Father sighed. "If they have the disease, they are in the early stages and it is something we can easily treat. Or they are disease free." Jean Louis's eyes followed Woody's eyes to Jordan, who was bringing another group of children to the playground. "Oui. That is why she is here."

Woody gave the priest a questioning glance.

"Oui," he repeated. "When Marie – Jordan – was injured in the car accident, of course we took her to the hospital. Once she regained consciousness and it was apparent she had no memory of the past, Sister Mary Katherine insisted we bring Marie back here until she had fully recuperated. It was during that time she began to have an interest in the sick children and seemed quite knowledgeable about medicines and treatments. Accurately so. We assumed that she may have been a nurse, perhaps a doctor. Never an ME." The priest chuckled, thinking how shocked some of the nuns would be that just such a doctor treated their bébés.

"Jordan's always liked children."

Jean Louis nodded. "I thought as much. She gets along well with them and they like her. Respect her. Elle a un rapport merveilleux avec eux. It is bon. So much so, that the Sisters never wanted to turn Marie over to the Haitian family services. They opted to keep her here and keep her presence quiet – as quiet as an American presence could be in such a small Haitian town. But the children and sisters love her. It didn't take long for the rest of the citizens of Fond Parisien to feel the same about her."

"So she plays school nurse?"

The Father shook his head. "Non. At least not all the time. She works with the children, teaches fifth grade. Her students adore her and will miss her greatly if she chooses to go with you."

Woody nodded, taking the hint. Then he added softly, "But Boston is her home."

"One that she does not remember."

"She might one day. And when she does, will she resent you for not allowing her to go home earlier, when she had the chance? While things are pretty much the way she left them?"

"But here she is loved."

"I have no doubt."

"You would take her away from that?"

Woody was silent for a moment, his eyes solely focused on Jordan as she rounded up her small charges and headed back for the classroom. "Father Louis," he said suddenly, "you have overlooked the obvious. I love her, too."


	4. Me in Terms of You

**Chapter Four**

**Me in Terms of You**

For the remainder of that day, Woody followed Jean Louis around under the pretext of quizzing the priest on the aftermath of the plane crash. To make the entire scenario seem kosher, he even questioned the Sisters who had been present after the accident.

However, if Marie was anything like Jordan, she was seeing through his entire charade. But the inquiries gave him an opportunity to speak with her alone – something he hadn't had the nerve to do since his arrival. No one could have prepared him for how awkward it was going to be to talk to someone you felt you knew all your life and she didn't know you from Adam's house cat.

Still, that night, after dinner, Woody chanced speaking with her. "Marie?" he called out after her, following her out of the dining room and back down a hallway. "Can I speak with you a minute?"

"Oui. Mais je ne vivais pas ici à l'heure de l'accident d'avion. Je suis inutile à votre recherche." She stopped and turned to face him.

And his puzzled look gave him away. Woody watched her lips turn up slightly at the corners, giving him that quizzical smile that always made his heart beat slightly faster. It was enigmatic. Sexy. All Jordan. He nearly shook his head. This was Marie – a woman who had no clue about their past. And she obviously had no idea what that smile did to him. "I'm sorry," he told her. "My French…is not…"

Her lips turned up two degrees more. "So I gathered. I said, 'But I was not living here at the time of the plane crash. I am of no use to your investigation'."

"When did you arrive at Fond Parisien?"

Without missing a beat, she replied. "Shortly afterwards, I think."

"You think?" Woody wondered if her memory was more affected than he had been led to believe.

"About three or four weeks afterwards, if I'm not mistaken. I'd have to look back at my calendar to make sure."

Woody nodded. That was a viable answer. One he'd have to give himself "Where were you before that?"

"Before that?"

Another nod. "Prior to arriving at Fond Parisien, where were you?" Woody could see flickers of discomfort in her eyes.

"What does that matter? I wasn't _here_."

_Her courage is intact…_ Woody held back a grin. "I'm a detective, Marie. I'm curious by nature."

"But where I was before I came here has nothing to do with the plane crash."

"Maybe not, but I'd still like for you to answer the question."

"But…but…" Jordan sputtered for a few moments before glancing at his face, Woody's blue eyes holding her captive.

"I don't remember," she finally told him softly after struggling a few uncomfortable moments.

"You don't remember?"

Jordan shook her head. "I was in an automobile accident and hit my head. I don't remember anything about myself, my life…When I woke up from being unconscious, it was as if I never had a life before that day. I couldn't remember anything. So I couldn't even begin to tell you where I was before the plane crash."

Woody let out a breath he had been holding the entire time. "I'm sorry, Marie."

"Merci. Are you through questioning me now?" Her fingers were twisting themselves in knots. Talking to this detective about the airplane did not bother her. Revealing the fact she had no memory of her past, did. She had often wondered if she had done something so horribly wrong that she had no desire to remember her history.

If that was the case, the Marie had counted her amnesia as a blessing and a second chance to start over and do things right this time. As the detective stepped away and allowed her to continue her walk to her sleeping quarters, Marie still felt her legs shaking as she wondered if her past – whatever it was -- had finally caught up with her.

Then it hit her like a ton of bricks. The detective… Hoyt Révélateur … had been neither surprised nor disbelieving when she told him her amnesia story. She spun back around on her heel.

"Monsieur Hoyt…exactly _why are you here_?"

* * *

That comment had sent Woody's immediate world into a tailspin. Jordan – Marie – had marched back over to him and demanded answers. In a loud enough voice that it alerted the Sisters and Father Louis.

Thankfully, the priest pulled Woody and Jordan out of the hallway and back to his office, allowing Woody to escape a circling band of nuns that were none to happy that their Marie had been upset by the questioning detective.

And now, Woody was sweating bullets outside Father Louis' office, waiting for the priest to tell Jordan the truth. Jean Louis decided that now was the best time, especially since Jordan's suspicions were aroused, to tell her the truth about Woody's visit to Haiti.

Just as he was his first day in Haiti, he was sitting outside of the Father's office, sweating in the way that only equatorial countries could make you sweat. Profusely and non stop. Add to that the tension of the moment and Woody's sweat glands were in hyper-drive. Once again, he had to peel the shirt away from his back.

Father Louis' and Jordan's voices rose and fell for the next half hour as the priest revealed to her what he knew about her past and why the detective from Boston had been hovering around their church and convent. It seemed as if hours passed before the door to the Father's office swung open and Jean Louis motioned Woody inside.

"Bon. It is over," the older man said, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. C'était difficile. Elle est confuse. The hardest thing I have ever done, I think. Jordan does not understand…."

Woody's eyes searched the room for her, but she wasn't in sight. "Where is she?" Surely Jean Louis wouldn't let her go back to her room by herself now? Given Jordan's seemingly genetic proclivity to run, Woody could feel himself tense.

"She is in the small room off to the side." The Father pointed to his left.

"May I see her?"

"Oui. If she will see you. I will wait outside. Good luck, mon fils. I will say a prayer…" With that the priest left his office and shut the door. Woody had no doubt the circling band of nuns were waiting to pounce the good Father as soon as he was within their clutches.

_Say a prayer…_ Woody remembered Garret's words and sent one up for himself. Quietly, he walked over to the small room off to the side and knocked on the door frame. "Marie…?"

"It's Jordan. At least Father Louis says so."

She was standing off in a corner, tissue in hand, her face holding the remnants of tears. Woody felt his heart sink.

"It is Jordan. Jordan Cavanaugh." He hesitated for a moment. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"No," she replied quietly, shaking her head. "I don't mind. I guess we have a lot to talk about."

"We do." Woody perched on the edge of the chair nearest to him and watched Jordan carefully as she sat down across from him. "Where do you want to start?"

"Try with why it took you two years for you to find me."

_Trust Jordan to start with the hardest. And most obvious. Amnesia doesn't change everything_…Woody looked down at his hands for a moment before he answered.

"First, when you left Boston, we didn't know where you had gone. You didn't leave a note or an email…you didn't call anyone. Not even me or Nigel."

"Nigel?"

"He's one of your friends and co-workers. But we'll get to him later. The fact was, we thought that if you had left town, you surely would have at least told one of us. But you didn't. You just left." Woody paused and let her absorb that, watching the emotions play across her face.

"Why did I leave? And why didn't I tell anyone?"

"We were working this case together, you and I. It was one that dealt with children and babies. There had been several child abductions in Boston." Noting the puzzled look on her face, he continued. "You're not a detective; you're a medical examiner – a doctor. We work together a lot. And cases involving children get to us both. But this time…" Woody ran his fingers through his hair. "This time it got to us worse than usual. So bad that we fought. A lot. The last fight we had was really bad. Then you disappeared. I imagine the reason you didn't tell me where you were going was because you were mad at me."

Jordan shook her head. "If I was mad enough at you to leave, why, of all places did I choose Haiti? And why, in all of Haiti, Fond Parisien? I think I would have at least chosen a resort somewhere…"

"You weren't running away from me because we fought. You didn't tell me you were going to leave because you were upset with me. You left because you were following a lead in the case."

"A lead in Fond Parisien?"

"Yes." Woody paused again, waiting to see if any of this would raise red flags in her mind, but Jordan's face was mix of confusion and wariness.

"You were mad enough at me not to look for me for two years?" she finally managed to choke out.

"No! No…no. That's not it at all. No." Woody was quick to reassure. "We had no idea where you had gone. By the time we got international warrants for the manifest on world-wide flights, it had taken two years. As soon as I knew where the plane had gone down, I was here as quick as I could get here."

Jordan sighed, shut her eyes, and leaned back in her chair. "Father Louis said my name was on the manifest for the plane that went down in Etang Saumatre. You thought I was dead."

Woody nodded, letting the pain of that information play a repeat performance across his face.

A fact that did not escape Jordan's attention. "So did you feel guilt, remorse, or loss?" she asked flatly.

"All of the above." This time Woody's voice choked.

"Then imagine your surprise when you found out I was alive."

His mouth kicked up at the corners, playing with his dimples. "I was overjoyed." He stopped long enough to look her in the eyes. "Completely overjoyed. You don't believe me?"

"You said we fought…"

"We did. We always do over cases. That was work. It had no bearing on our relationship."

"Our relationship? Did we date? See each other?"

Woody nodded and mentally crossed his fingers. "Yes."

Jordan sighed as she sat up and looked at Detective Hoyt. Despite everything Father Louis and Woody had told her about her past and herself, Jordan didn't feel like Jordan. Jordan felt like Marie—the person she had been for the past two years. Fifth grade teacher. Sometime school nurse. This _Jordan_ and her ME status meant nothing. It was like that part of her was now the stranger, not Marie. "So what do you expect of me now, Detective?"

"I would like for you to think about coming home with me. Back to Boston."


	5. You in Terms of Us

**Chapter Five**

**You in Terms of Us**

"No."

Her answer was swift and certain when Woody raised the question of her returning to Boston. "I don't remember Boston. I don't remember my job. I don't remember this Nigel, and _I don't remember you_."

"Coming back may help you to…"

"I have a life here now, Detective Hoyt. I'm happy. I teach kids. It may not be a lot in comparison to what I once did, but it's all I know. I don't want to leave it."

Woody hung his head for a moment. It wasn't as if he expected a different answer. It was just hearing it coming from her so quickly and with no thought that hurt. On some deeper, psychological level, he had hoped that Jordan would have at least acquiesced to returning to Boston for a short time, just to see if the familiar sights and people she once knew nudged her memory a little.

Instead, she seemed quite content in her amnesia.

"I understand," he said finally, raising his head to look her in the eyes. "I understand it, but I can't lie to you, Jordan. I don't like it. I had hoped you would at least come to Boston for a little while…"

She shook her head and set her lips firmly. "Haiti and the life I have here is all I know. I am comfortable with it. I am sorry if you are disappointed."

Woody reached across the space that separated the two chairs and took her hands, making their knees nearly touch. "I understand," he repeated, "but I _am_ disappointed. As much as Father Louis and the Sisters here love you, there are a whole group of people in Boston that love you just as much – maybe more – because they've known you longer. Garret, Nigel, Bug, Lily...they all love you and want you back. And that doesn't even touch what I feel about you and how much I want you to come home."

For a long moment Jordan paused and looked down at their intertwined fingers. The sight of her smaller hands in his bigger ones, held warm and snug, caused her heart to flip for a second. Vainly, she searched her mind for some kind of memory, any kind of memory, that would connect this man to her heart.

And came up empty.

So for the first time since her accident, Jordan did something she had never done before, because no one could give her any answers. She asked a question about her past. "Monsieur Hoyt…Woody… What kind of relationship did we have?"

Woody tightened his grip on her hands a fraction before he answered.

"I had asked you to marry me."

* * *

Woody stayed in Haiti for another week.

He hoped against hope that the time they were alone, would somehow push an old memory to the forefront of her mind. But no matter what old case he'd discuss or how many times he'd reminiscence about a past event, it seemed nothing was jarring her memories.

By the end of the third day, Woody was admitting to himself that the amnesia had claimed his Jordan and in her place _was_ Marie. A woman that looked like his Jordan, and even acted like his Jordan at times, but was an entirely different person – Marie. She'd listen to him and his stories. Intently. As if she was searching her own self for some kind of glint of the past, but was also coming up just as empty and frustrated as he was.

He had come so far, only to have so much farther to go. And this time, it looked as if the journey would be alone.

Friday, his last night in Haiti, he had eaten dinner with the Father, the Sisters, and Jordan, then excused himself to go back to his room and pack. When he was through, he'd planned on finding Jordan again and spending the last few hours with her, seeing if another tale of their past might do the trick. He'd avoided any of the stories about them chasing her mother's murderer. _Maybe the story about us re-enacting old, unsolved cases at her dad's bar_…he mused as he neatly folded his shirts and put them in his suitcase. _That might do it…_

He was so deep in thought that the knock on the door nearly startled him.

The sight of a distressed Jordan on the other side of the door startled him more. He opened the door wider and motioned her in. "Jordan? What are you doing here? I was going to…"

She shook her head, held out her hand, and took a deep breath. "Take me for a walk," she managed to choke out. "Please…."

* * *

Wordlessly the walked together, through the covered walkway around the church, back to the wooden walkway around Etang Saumatre where Woody had learned the truth about Jordan from Father Louis. It was only when Jordan was sure that they were out of range from anyone hearing their conversation did she stop and turn to Woody.

"I needed to talk to you tonight," she began hurriedly, knowing the nuns would miss her before long and worry. "Alone."

Woody's face took on a hopeful look. _Maybe she remembered something…_

"I don't remember you. I still don't remember you," she pressed on, obviously rushing to get to the crux of what she needed to say, but pausing for a second when she saw the crestfallen look on his face. "I've tried, Woody. I've really tried to remember. But the fact is, I'm coming up empty.

"But," she reached out and took his hand and pulled him down onto one of the benches along the walkway, "I feel that you're someone I can trust…should trust. I mean, I obviously did, at one time. After everything you've said we've gone through, I must have trusted you. Right? You asked me to marry you…I must have trusted you…"

She was babbling. Jordan knew she was babbling and Woody wasn't following her train of thought. Or maybe he was. He didn't look confused. He looked like he was trying not to laugh. She must have babbled around him before.

Jordan took a deep breath and started again. "You said I came to Fond Parisien to follow a lead I had on missing children, right?"

Woody nodded. "That's what Nigel and I came up with. That was the only reason that seemed valid."

"Good," she nodded in agreement. "Because that makes what I'm about to tell you make more sense." Jordan paused and swallowed hard. "I didn't notice things so much at the beginning here, you know. I was recovering from the automobile wreck and for a while, Father Louis was working hard to find out who I was and why I was here. The Sisters kept trying to help me regain my memories, but there was so little to go on…"

Woody reflexively squeezed her hands. "I'm sorry, Jo. We did try to find you…"

Jordan dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. "That's not it. After a while, children here would just…be gone. They would be here one day and gone the next. When I'd ask where they were, I was told that they had been adopted out or they had gone to another children's home. I accepted that for a long time. There was no reason for me not to.

"But the last time it happened, I was coming back from prayers and I noticed that the children leaving the home – two little girls – weren't going with Haitian Family Services, or even with the family that was adopting them. They were being put in a black SUV by two men. Two large men."

She tightened her hold on Woody's hand. "That didn't look right to me. Then throw in the fact that we've never heard from some of these kids after they were supposed to be adopted out…"

"You hear from them?"

Jordan nodded. "A letter, e-mail now that we have the internet…Yeah. Usually we hear something after they leave. But from the majority of them over the past couple of years I've been here? Nothing." She drew her attention away from the hand she was holding and looked into his eyes.

And Woody could hear the wheels turning in her head. _Amnesia hasn't changed one thing about her…_ Without saying a word, her eyes were telling him her theory. Cognitively she couldn't string it all together, but she knew that somehow the lead she was chasing before her accident and what was happening with the children's home here in Fond Parisien were somehow related. She just wasn't sure how.

"Can you help me?" It was whispered so low that Woody could barely hear her.

"I have to go back to Boston tomorrow."

"But there…can you look back through my files…whatever we did…whatever that Nigel did…"

He nodded. "I will. But Jordan, you have to realize, if they're on to you here…if they think you may know something…or suspect something…you could be in danger yourself."

"They know nothing. They have no idea I saw what I did…"

"Still," Woody tightened his hold on her hand this time. "I'd feel better if you'd come back with me tomorrow."

"Non."

"But…"

"If I go back, then they may really suspect something. And as long as I am at Fond Parisien, I can try to protect the children here."


	6. A Way to Start Again Somehow

**Chapter Six**

**A Way to Start Again Somehow**

It was a long walk down the aisles of the cold case storage facility. Long. And lonely. As soon as he had returned from Haiti to Boston, Woody had kept his promise to Jordan to look back through her files and determine if he could some how find out why she went to Fond Parisien and what was the lead she was following.

He finally found the box by the case number and lifted it from the shelf, then carried it to a table to spread the contents out. Much of it was familiar, the bagged evidence, her notes, her tapes. Nigel's lab analysis. The Boston PD's reports. And it all stopped about two weeks before Jordan had caught a flight out of Boston, to Philly, then to Orlando. Then finally Haiti. Woody sighed. That had been about the time the authorities told them to back off and let the case come together on all sides before arrests were made – that everyone needed to be apprehended in one full sweep, instead of a few arrests here and a few there that would send up alarms to the other people involved.

The guys that were really behind the child abductions.

Of course, this is also about the time they had been fighting the hardest over the case. Jordan wanted to act now, to prevent any more kids from being snatched and Woody fell back in line with his superiors, wanting to wait it out a little longer. So, if Jordan had a hunch…a lead…she had kept it to herself and acted on it alone. There was nothing in this box that would tell him anything about why she took off to Fond Parisien without him. That information was locked somewhere in her subconscious – a subconscious that seemed quite content to remain silent.

Woody sighed again and sealed the box back up. Jordan – Marie – was never far from his mind. Before Father Jean had driven him to the Port Au Prince airport, he had done two things. First, he slipped Jordan one of his business cards after they returned to the church that night after their walk. "It has my office phone and police cell number on it. On the back," he flipped the card over, "is my home phone number. Don't lose it. If you need me, call me. If you want to talk, call me. If you remember _anything_, call me. If another child disappears or you're in danger? _You call me. Don't go to Father Jean or Sister Mary Katherine. You. Call. Me," _he emphasized. "Promise me."

Jordan had nodded. "I promise."

The second thing he did was corner her the next morning and press a box in her hands. "Here."

"What do I need with a cell phone?"

"Use this to call me anytime. It's a Boston phone. My personal one. I want you to have it."

Jordan had looked at him like he was crazy. "But there are phones here."

Woody didn't want to tell her that if there was someone in the convent that was involved with the disappearance of the children, the phones could be tapped. Or worse, they could hear Jordan telling Woody what she had seen or heard and then she would become a direct target. "This will simply make it more convenient for you to talk to me anytime you want to. And it's a Boston phone, so the long distance charges won't be incurred by the church, but by me. And I don't mind paying them. You just use that phone anytime you need it."

"But Woody…"

"Promise me, Jor. Just like last night you promised me you'd call me."

_Jor_. Something about that abbreviated version of her given name sent a shiver up her spine and a glimmer of something ran through her mind. But just like that, it was gone again. She shook her head.

"Promise me," Woody said again, this time more firmly.

"I will." Her hands closed over the phone.

"And here's the charger. Don't forget to charge it every night and keep it with you."

She nodded again, but couldn't help but feel his all his fears were just a little unnecessary.

Jordan might feel that the cell phone was unnecessary, but not Woody. He felt uneasy leaving her there as Father Louis drove him to the airport. That feeling didn't leave when his plane lifted off the ground and flew west back to the United States.

And if anything it had grown since he had landed back in Boston. The few times he had chanced to call her, Jordan had assured him that everything was fine. She was fine. The children were fine. And for him not to worry.

But she may as well have told him not to breathe.

* * *

She knew it, of course. Even though she had pinned a smile on her face for him as he left with Father Louis, Jordan knew it would happen again.

Another child would leave the orphanage. She just didn't know when. And equally confusing to her was the fact that she trusted this utter stranger with her fears about the children. Her reasoning had been that the "other her" had obviously trusted him enough to agree to marry him. Therefore, Hoyt Révélateur was trustworthy.

She hoped.

The trust would be put to the test sooner than Jordan realized.

"Miss Marie…Miss Marie…" a young, excited voice reached her ears long before the young body rounded the corner. "Miss Marie…"

"Dominique…"

"Miss Marie…a family wants me. I'm leaving the orphanage…"

Jordan struggled to keep her face neutral as Dominique told her that on Thursday, he'd be leaving the orphanage for good and settling down with his own family, "just like I've always wanted…"

"Really?"

"Really…"

A few more gently probing questions and Jordan learned just when on Thursday that Dominique would be leaving. The where and with who were up in the air. Dominique hadn't met his new parents yet and wouldn't until Thursday when he would be picked up by them. As soon as classes were over and Jordan had a minute to herself, she went back to her room and pulled Woody's cell phone from the drawer of her nightstand, hiding it in her skirt as she walked outside to get a signal. The thick plaster walls of the convent didn't allow one to permeate the building.

She pressed one on speed dial and was connected with Woody's police phone.

"Marie…Jordan, what are you doing out here?"

It was Father Louis. She flipped the phone shut.

"I was calling Woody."

"You have a cell phone now?"

Jordan nodded. "He gave it to me when he left." It never occurred to her to be anything else other than honest with the Father.

"Why, my child?"

Jordan swallowed nervously, feeling like a kid who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar right before dinner. "Woody wanted me to call him if I remembered anything."

"And do you?"

Jordan shook her head no. "But he also wanted to hear from me once a week. Just to make sure I am okay."

"And you are fine?"

"Yes. Certainly. Why wouldn't I be?"

Father Louis chuckled. "You appear to be bon. Do you miss this detective?"

Jordan was silent for a long minute. She had to admit a part of her did. It was easy to see why the 'other her' had been attracted to this man. He was tall and handsome. And had blue eyes that could measure and hold her soul. And at one time evidently held her heart. But there was more to it than that. More than she could put her finger on. However she still couldn't reason why she missed someone she couldn't remember. "I do. But I'm not sure why. Does that make sense?"

"Oui." Father Louis smiled at her. "It does. But run along now to dinner. Sister Mary Katherine is waiting for you to help her with the children."

* * *

Two more weeks passed, and other than a missed call from Jordan, Woody had heard nothing from her. He had tried calling several times, but was never successful in reaching her.

He had found her only to lose her again. The last time they did talk, she hadn't regained any of her memory, but had been concerned about another child, Dominique, that was due to leave the orphanage on a Thursday. The kid hadn't met his new parents and Jordan had no idea where he was going. Her voice had been nearly frantic with worry and Woody had cautioned her not to do anything rash.

Which was still like spitting in the wind with Jordan Cavanaugh. "I can't sit here and do nothing," she sputtered.

"If you do anything, you may find yourself in a world of trouble. And I'm not there this time to get you out of it."

There had been a beat of silence. "_This time_?" There was a world of emphasis on that phrase.

"Yeah, _this time_." Woody said it slowly and heavily.

"You have gotten me out of trouble before?"

He had to chuckle. "I have gotten you out of trouble several times before, Jordan."

"Oh."

"So listen," Woody leaned forward on his desk and ran a hand through his hair. "Be careful. Don't do anything that would seem not normal to these people. All you have to do is say the word and I'll fly down there…."

She had assured him it was not necessary. She'd keep her eyes open and her mouth shut. Woody had made a mental note to check the airlines' schedules out of Logan that flew directly to Haiti.

And all of that had been two weeks ago. No word since. Whether she had simply written him off as a relic of a past she couldn't remember or was now in such deep trouble she couldn't call him, Woody wasn't sure.

All he did know was that when his police phone rang again and his old cell number flash across the LED screen, he answered it in a rush. "Jordan? How are you? I've been worried sick…"

"Woody?"

"Yeah, it's me, honey. How are you?"

"Woody…I'm fine. But I'm at Logan. Could you come pick me up?"


End file.
